Page 9 of Yearning

Darcy sank into the pillow, feeling helpless and angry as he gazed at the ceiling. “How long?”

“Perhaps four weeks?”

“A month?” His voice cracked.

“You are very eager,” said the doctor. “That… that is rare. If you are serious about it, we can try an increased speed. Perhaps three weeks, but I would not do it more quickly, not in your condition. You are likely not prepared for the pain it is muting now, I do not think. You… sir, your pelvis is still not mended entirely. You must stay still. The laudanum helps to keep you from becoming antsy.”

Darcy nodded at the ceiling. “I understand. Three weeks.”

The doctor let out a breath. “You are admirably strong, sir. I cannot imagine what you must be feeling.”

“Thank you,” said Darcy quietly, but he did not feel strong. He felt like someone swimming out in the abyss, and he was trying to hold onto something. What would Mr. Darcy do? What would a gentleman do? What would a man do?

CHAPTER FOUR

ELIZABETH AND HIS cousin talked over Mr. Darcy sometimes when he was pretending to be asleep.

Darcy heard it in Richard’s voice, and he realized it had been there all along, and he had never noticed. He wondered at himself for not noticing, but then, back before his life was all conducted on this bed, before he was pissing himself and unable to stand or move or anything at all, he’d had a number of distractions in his life. So many things to focus on.

Now, even if he tried to inquire after things, no one would tell him anything. He had asked after the tenant rents only twenty times, and all anyone said was that he must not worry himself about that sort of thing, that he must focus on healing, that was all.

At any rate, it likely should have been obvious, but Richard was in love with Elizabeth.

Obviously, he was. How could any man have a conversation with that woman and not fall in love with her? She was the perfect woman. She was beautiful and funny and quite, quite intelligent, her wit the kind that glittered like jewels, and she would sit with him for hours every day and read to him, talk to him, hold his hand, and he was stupidly grateful to her for all of that, and he also knew that the only thing that he could possibly do now to make things better was to convince her to leave him.

Elizabeth was not in love with Richard.

He could tell that, from their conversations over him. She liked Richard well enough. She was polite to him, and she seemed to genuinely enjoy his company. But when Elizabeth was in love, there was a spark to her, something a bit sharp, a brightness. He only heard that in her voice when she spoke to him.

But Darcy saw that it was the easiest solution, and he found it rather tidy, in some ways. Also, she would be family and he would see her sometimes, and he liked the idea of that. He wished to look after her, in whatever capacity he would be able to do so, and this would enable him to do that.

He must simply get Richard to marry his intended. That was the solution to everything. To this end, he must make a plan to make it happen. The easiest thing was to simply talk to them about it. Perhaps, he could do it while they were there together, or perhaps he could speak to either one of them about it, a one-on-one conversation. But if so, should it be her, or should it be Richard?

Richard would likely agree to it easily enough, but Elizabeth was the one who needed convincing, so he determined it must be her. However, he had not been speaking to her often. He had been feigning sleep with her more often than not, because he did not know how to be around her anymore. He remembered what he had been to her, the way he had looked down on her, always down, because he was tall and she was smaller than he.

He had been so very tall—what had Bingley said of him once—that he was such a great and tall fellow? Bingley had meant it to say that he was treated differently because of his height, and Bingley had the right way of it.

He’d had so many advantages before. He was nothing now, and he wanted—

I am to protect her. I am to do whatever I can for her.

But he used to feel as if she looked at him that way. He remembered the way she had looked up at him and thanked him for saving her family, and that had felt so good, knowing he’d done something for her, knowing she felt gratitude, knowing he could… well, there was something about it, even though it had all been symbolic, but it felt, when he was able to stand, that he could have bodily put himself between danger and her, and she had looked up at him, fluttering her eyelashes, something breathless in the way she gazed at him, and felt it, too. Now that was all gone.

Yes, but this would be the conversation, would it not?

He must let it all go, that feeling that they’d had. He was pointless to her now. He must embody that truth in order to let her go.

She came early every morning.

Richard never came early.

Darcy always pretended to be asleep, but today, he did not.

She was delighted to find him aware. “I had thought you might be awake more often,” she said. “I had heard you were not taking as much laudanum, and I had hoped you would be… that there would be less… that is, I understood specifically that you did not like the dreams.”

Lord, she was dazzling. He smiled at her. It hurt his jaw, even though his jaw was now set. It wasn’t straight, or so the surgeon had said when he came in to examine him, but it was mended now and there was no way to fix it without re-breaking it. Darcy had looked at himself in a looking glass, and he had liked it, liked that his face was a little lopsided, that it was simply writ there, an announcement to all. He liked looking different. He was different. He… “Lizzy,” he breathed. “Lizzy, Lizzy, you are…”

Apparently, neither of them were much good at finishing sentences.